The Nightmare Complex
by BigBadger
Summary: Spartans are the best of the best, held in the spotlight and applauded as heroes. They are seen as gods, applauded with awe and pride by Humanity galaxy-wide. That, however, is not the fate of one such Spartan. Codename: NIGHTMARE is not that lucky.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Just an idea I've been brewing up for a while. Let me know if you want to see more past Chapter 1 and I'll work on it.**

Elizabeth watched in horror as the skyscraper came down, roaring mechanically as it did. It had been gutted by a vertical white beam projected from the ship above, and cut through the 300 floors of the tower with laughable ease, burning through the supports and making the tower lurch over and fall. She ran down the corridor of her block of flats, darting past onlookers that shared her shocked expression, turning the corner towards the lifts before hitting something hard and collapsing onto her back.

"Why are you still up here?" Her Father yelled above the mutterings of the people nearby and the roaring of the dying building opposite them, "We've got to get out, Lizzie! Come on!" He gripped her hand and dragged her along, ignoring her yells of "Dad!" and "Let go of me!" as he began to hammer frantically on the panel. 26. That was their floor. 26 floors down was their only hope of escape.

She glared up at her Father, about to argue against his squeezing grip, when she saw the desperation in his wide, teary eyes. He had lost another child just five years ago. Elizabeth's brother, Adam, had passed away at the age of 6 from natural causes. She was only 12 at the time, and it had hit her hard. She wondered if her Father felt any worse, and a wave of guilt overcame her. She looked down at his trembling lips and hugged him tightly, and the lift was devoid of sound save for the out-of-place chimes of the lift music in the background.

When the bell was rung and the two silver doors slowly screeched open, the duo entered the large gathering of trembling and nervous people that had filled the entrance hall to the block in its entirety. It was a beautiful hall; the carpets were clean-cut and crimson, and the walls were lined with different paintings of varying eras – a wave of abstract art on the left wall, and an excruciatingly detailed portrait of a figure she saw on the right caught Elizabeth's eye. She looked forward out of the tall rectangular windows that were three metres high and two metres long, out at the mauled and dying tower.

It was halfway down now, collapsed at a sharp angle to the left, and with each passing second another jet of dust and debris would expand in a thick cloud in every direction, accompanied by the deep mechanical groans of the skyscraper and the fits of coughing of those caught in the clouds. Stood on the sides of the fountain that marked the centre of the great hall were three soldiers in Marine uniform, barking the same general orders that their comrades had barked on another hundred worlds beforehand – _"Stay calm", "Do exactly as we say and you'll be alright", "It's nothing to worry about, don't panic!"_

Elizabeth was paying no attention to them, but rather they comrades that stood outside on the cracked marble steps that led into the car park. They were hurriedly packing crates, presumably supplies and food, onto their trio of armoured buggies – Warthogs, she thought they were called – when one of them looked to another marine, bashing him on the head and pointing up in shock. A crackling streak of blue came in from the left and fell down upon one of the buggies, melting through its mid-section and leaving only the bonnet and boot remaining, the vehicle's turret charred black with one of its armoured plates removed. Led by it were the two marines from before, entirely black save for the odd red and white where untouched flesh and bone were visible.

The crowd wailed in horror together in unison, their muffled mutterings turning to outward fright as their barged past the three marines ahead of them. Elizabeth and her Father were pushed along as the field of shoving, barging and yelling was funnelled through the two sets of double-doors and onto the patio outside. Elizabeth saw nothing of the marines, but to her left she heard the crackle of gunfire, the screams of desperate orders, the roars and barks of something inhuman, and the wails of pain and agony.

The herd had dispersed now, like a pack of gazelle startled by a lion, and they were running frantically down the road to the right, presumably away from whatever was presently trying to murder them. Elizabeth's Father took her to one side, forcing her against the wall with his two broad palms over her shoulders and mumbling to her quietly.

"We're going to run, ok? We're going over the bridge, to the spaceport." He muttered. She nodded, "And whatever you do, do not stop – not for me, not for anybody out there. You worry about _you_ first, do you understand?" She nodded again, gulping heavily. Her Father responded in kind.

Then they ran. There must've been hundreds of them on that road that day. The duo stumbled over rubble and bodies – dead and alive – while all around them people yelled to each other. Elizabeth's head darted to her right as one such yell rang out – someone was on the floor, crying. A middle aged man. It looked like William Schlafer from next-door. He was clutching his leg tightly, a batch of flesh exposed on his right thigh. He stood up and began to stumble along with the crowd when a small green orb erupted through his chest. He stood there staring at the cauterizing wound for a moment, before his head fell forwards and he collapsed.

Elizabeth blinked at the corpse, unsure of how to respond. She was brought to her senses when her Father tapped her hard and made her stumble. "Come on! Keep running!" He pointed to the arching bridge, held up by large red supports that shimmered proudly in the autumn sun. It was less than 100 metres away, but the path was littered with rubble, smears of blood and scorch marks. She continued to run, her Father just ahead of her, until she made it over the bridge.

Elizabeth stopped at the end of the bridge on the other side, a green blob narrowly missing her, where she bent over to catch her breath. Her jeans were ripped by the sharp, angular rubble and her ankle was bleeding, but she didn't feel it. She sat down, scanning over the hundreds of people who had yet to make it across. They were all stood, staring up at the skyscraper, as if moths transfixed by a lightbulb. _Why aren't they running? _She thought to herself, as she began to panic in empathy. _Come on! Run you idiots! Run! _

"Look…" her Father muttered, as if reading her thoughts. He pointed to a large beetle-like construct that was scaling the angled remains of the skyscraper. It roared mechanically, swaying a robotic head which began to glow, emitting a dim green light from its 'eye'. A beam ejected itself from the head after a moment of charging, gutting the cadaver of the skyscraper once more. It was enough to send the skyscraper flat onto its side… right on top of all of those people… The muffled screams lasted for a few seconds, but all Elizabeth saw before the dust fell like a mist was the crowd trying, in vain, to escape. Not a single one made it out. The great beetle chirped to itself, apparently pleased with its performance, and crawled off into the corridor of buildings behind the crater where the skyscraper had made its last stand, escaping from Elizabeth's view.

The 17-year-old slumped to the ground, sitting on a rough, angular plate from the fallen building. Her lips trembled and her vision blurred as her eyes began to drip tears down her cheeks. Her Father sat down by her, his neon orange football shirt a similar picture to her aqua-blue jeans, and he held her in his embrace, where she began to sob deeply.

"We were meant to start college next week… "She mumbled, "Ashley and Bradley from Floor 12… they were starting too..." she struggled to speak, hiccupping to try and fight back her sobbing. "Now… they're… they're…" She wrapped her arms around her knees and buried her face behind them.

"It's not far to the spaceport now," he murmured, looking up at the weary clusters of people who were mourning in similar fashion, "Come on, if we get there we'll be safe. That's what the marine said."

She nodded slowly, and they both stood weakly in unison, making their way down one of the myriad of roads that made up the labyrinthine Old Sector of Arcadia City. The line of buildings on either side of the road were largely undamaged, in stark contrast to the residential sector behind them, and as they looked back – which they did repeatedly as they fought with their own disbelief - they saw great plumes of smoke rising high above the tops of buildings and disappearing into the clouds. The dim noises of battle were still present, the crackling of bullets and the pulse of whatever weapons the invaders were using. On one occasion, a flash of green could be seen, painted on the sides of buildings, presumably from the giant vehicle. A roar would follow this event, though its maker was always out of view.

They walked for several minutes down the roads, all but alone. The buildings nearby at been evacuated first, so the Old Sector looked like the backdrop to a cliché horror film. Any moment now, Elizabeth was certain, some evil monster would turn the corner and viciously attack them, perhaps with bloodied teeth or claws. _Who knows? _She muttered to herself, _perhaps getting murdered by Draculas is nicer than having to face whatever these are._

No such moment came until 20 minutes later. Father and daughter were resting at the entrance to a small shop, having raided it for whatever they could carry. She was chowing down on a chicken sandwich whilst her Father stroked his neatly-trimmed grey stubble, his strong turquoise eyes examining a Coca-Cola grimly. His sharp expressions were deeply worn, and the large eyes which he normally wielded with compassion and warmth were weighed down by the man's fatigue.

They were finishing their scavenged meals when a loud footstep echoed through the stillness of the evening air. The man hastily pocketed his drink, darting to a cobblestone pillar which held up the shop's overhang and glancing out.

"It's one of them!" He hissed quietly, "Get inside, now. Go through the back door, I'll follow you out."

"That's stupid! You'll die!" She stood upright, glaring at a single two-pronged foot which was less than 10 metres away. It turned to face the shop, before landing closer. "Oh shit…" she muttered. She'd been too loud. Idiot.

The man peered around the corner again, his eyes returning to meet her gaze with resolution. "Fuck. Right, do what I say. I'll buy you time." He narrowed his eyes before she got the chance to argue, darting around the corner with a mad war-cry, and Elizabeth scurried into the shop. She darted behind a counter, weighed down by grief, but she couldn't reveal it now. She looked up from behind a packet of Haribo's, seeing a tall, stocky and inhuman figure blocking off the doorway and casting the shop in shadow. Her father didn't even last 5 seconds.

She bit her lip to stop her from breaking down, turning and hugging the counter as she slid herself towards the bright-green door labelled "FIRE EXIT" on the other side of the room. She froze at the edge of the counter, feeling a jet of warm air behind her neck. In horror she turned, seeing nothing but a double-edged blade of light cleaving clean through the plastic of the counter, showering the floor in confections. She yelped loudly as the sword-bearer gazed around the corner, staring at her with beady, hate-filled, reptilian eyes. It roared as it charged at her, knocking over items of food as it went with a loud clatter.

Elizabeth screamed again and ran. She ran through the fire escape, down a dark, litter-clogged alley and out into a large motorway that was blockaded on either side with abandoned and ruined vehicles, dotted with the corpses of their drivers. Her head darted around, seeing no way of escape, and she began to break down. The creature's footsteps grew closer as he approached from behind. She turned around to face the beast, a hulking brute of a creature clad in brilliant golden armour, hiding the evil that lurked below. It was in no rush to kill its prey – it approached her on back-bent legs with a certain complacency and arrogance, glowing sword in-hand, when streak of white whistled past Elizabeth's ear and the creature gripped its neck in shock. It collapsed in a loud "THUMP", purple goop oozing through its 4-fingered hand and onto the cold tarmac below.

She turned around to identify her saviour; a short, stocky figure, well-dressed in a completely black suit. He was resting his left arm on a sniper rifle, and he grinned at the young woman through thick black spectacles.

"Greetings, my dear. I am Edmund! Would you like to get out of here?" He enquired cheerfully, his grin extending as he did.

Elizabeth shivered and, seeing no other available option, complied. He guided her to her salvation – a black-plated gunship, just over 30 metres long, with an image engraved on the side of the craft, just behind the cockpit; that of a black-and-white triangle against a circular, similarly coloured background. It was sparkling and unscarred, untouched by the aliens that invaded Arcadia. The pilot gave a hearty wave as the man and his accomplice boarded. Elizabeth sat opposite Edmund in the troop bay, and as the pelican roared, its engines kicking into action and spreading a wave of dust and smoke over the road, all she could do was cry.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N – School's back in, so anyone who reads this, expect updates only on weekends. Sorry about that, but mocks are coming up so I often don't feel in the mood for writing fanfiction on week days. **

Deep beneath the rock of Luna, Edmunds strolled casually through the well-lit, angular corridor of the ONI facility. He would stop occasionally to return the hasty salutes of those security officers, scientists and ONI operatives whom he passed as he went. He stopped at the bulkhead door, sliding his ID card into the access panel and pushing up his glasses, when someone tapped him gently on the back.

"Hey, commander," a deep masculine voice greeted him from behind. It was Sergeant Peter Abraham, the fire team leader for the ODST unit that was to drop in with the secret project. They had heard of an uproar among the more rebellious of the UNSC's restored outer colonies, who felt betrayed at the use of Covenant technology by the victorious UNSC, particularly to do with the construction of high-tech starships such as the recently disclosed _UNSC Infinity. _

"I thought I'd come see exactly what we've got to babysit, sir." He claimed politely, the door screeching open as they continued to walk. "I hear it's quite the hassle."

"_She _is quite the hassle," the operative corrected him, "and I'm not sure if _babysit _is the right word for it. _Contain _is probably more accurate." He chuckled, as Edmund did. "Here. The viewing port is through this door, you can see for yourself."

The second bulkhead door slid to the sides as it opened, revealing a short rectangular room with scientists and officers huddled around control panels. Opposite them, bolted firmly into the shining cream-coloured walls, was a large microphone. The officer stepped into the room, followed by the shock trooper, seeing similar configurations of rooms disappearing off to the left and right at angles. The whole room, a large viewing port, was laid out in a hexagonal configuration, overlooking an arena below which was shrouded in artificial mist so that nothing could be made out from within it.

"Welcome to what the staff workers call The Pen," Edmund exclaimed with pride, "this is where we keep my personal pet project. What – to be more specific, _who – _you are about to see is confidential. Nobody outside of ONI Section 0 knows of this. You understand the repercussions if you disclose this information to anyone?" His voice took on a sudden, hostile tone, typical of a Spook.

"Of course, yeah-yeah. I know enough about you." The ODST shook off the obvious threat.

"Good. Dr. Cullen, may I have access to the microphone?" He turned to a tall, thin man whose head was bald save for an uneven layer of white stubble.

The man turned with a worried frown on his face. "Last time, Edmund. Don't you remember what happened? She went berserk last time. Butchered everyone we sent down there."

"Access please, Doctor." Edmund persevered, to which the doctor sighed and nodded, tapping something into a console which activated a flickering green light next to the microphone.

"Spartan, do you hear me?" his moderately-pitched, excitable voice boomed through the microphone. A muffled grumble from beneath the shroud indicated they did.

"Excellent. Come out, my dear. Sergeant wants to see you."

There was another muffled grumble, followed by a growl and a few stomps, as a silhouette began to take shape beneath the mist. It was shuffling forward with little control, sending a great echoing thud through the steel floor as it did. Staff and doctors within the three visible viewports began to exchange looks of worry mixed with curiosity as the owner of the silhouette made its appearance.

It was a Spartan-III, adorned in heavily rusted MJOLNIR of a purple-black colouration, indicative of something that hasn't been cleaned since it was first issued. Its reconnaissance helmet's visor was painted solid black so that it blended into the helmet in which it was seated. Each of the Spartan's arms were bound in three sets of thick chains, attached to an invisible point on the floor. On its left arm was a bulky device that stood out from the otherwise lithe and curved figure, and it was glowing a pale blue as some sort of on-board interface sparked to life, the cyan light piercing the mist somewhat, illuminating the wall closest with a dull tint.

"Edmund?" The female voice enquired with a tilt of the head. Her voice echoed with a high pitch and had a childish, excitably twang, and she sounded as if she was uncontrollably grinning. She interlocked her fingers and raised them behind her neck idly.

"Yes, Spartan. Come to the medical room, dear," he responded. The Spartan replied with a high-pitched chuckle and walked forwards, towards a double-door set in the glimmering steel below two of the viewpoints of The Pen.

They let out a jet of air as they pulled apart, and the Spartan walked through, her fingers twitching upwards and downwards incessantly at her side. She was met by half a dozen ONI Security Force personnel, four with magnums and two with MA5D assault rifles.

"Come with us, _ma'am_," the lead officer ordered with a monotone, commanding voice.

To this the Spartan simply replied, "Ooh, an adventure!" and clapped her hands together, creating a metallic clang that ricocheted across the walls of the Titanium-A corridor. She followed the six personnel through a labyrinth of criss-crossing corridors, staircases and balconies, arriving about five minutes later at a set of double-doors that were, unlike the last, completely transparent. Above them, "MEDICAL CENTRE" spread out above the double doors, illuminating the walkway on which the seven figures stood with a brilliant dark green.

The three security officers ahead of the Spartan entered first, followed by her and the three officers that brought up the flank. They had entered a small rectangular room with them stood at one of the shorter sides. In the middle of the room, a tall transparent cylinder stood, three wires of varying widths snaking out from its base and connecting through and to various terminals, display panels and wall sockets. A tall, chubby woman was bent over one such terminal, muttering to herself in annoyance and tapping away at a datapad.

"This system is defunct. Look at this, it's like they think I'm Einstein or some other 20th Century monkey." Her voice was strong and American, and she spoke with an irritable twang. "Oh," she continued after a brief pause and a turn, "This is the subject again. Hello, love."

"Is it time for my adventure?" the Spartan squeaked with a giggle.

"Ah, good," the doctor said, "She's in that mood. Excellent." She instructed the Spartan to hook herself up to the machinery required for medical testing, which she did without question.

"Ok, armour is functional if… very dirty. Brainwaves are stable,well, stable _for you_…"

She continued to list statistics, measurements and readouts, using words that made the heads of the officers spin. The Spartan just sat there, bouncing her head from side-to-side hyperactively, excitable like a child at an ice-cream truck.

Finally, the fat doctor sat down and opened a communication channel. "Your spartan's fit for service. Just. Keep an eye on her though."

There were a few seconds of silence before a crackle, followed by a voice, rang out across the room: "Roger that, Dr. Thanks. Have fun down there, Spartan."


	3. Chapter 3

The Charon's canteen was brimming with activity. Marines and ODSTs were scattering like clusters of ants, normally in fire teams, stopping only in the line to the daily meal, which was, today, soup of varying flavours. The grey walls that made up the large rectangular hall were so well lit as to appear a chalk white, illuminated brilliantly by the large lights that were set into the ceiling in three rows.

One particular shock trooper stopped at a table, placing his tray down onto the cold iron-coloured surface and skidding it along a few centimetres, before sitting down next to five other men.

"Afternoon, sergeant." Muttered the shock trooper to his left, whose armour was tinted with green and whose left shoulder plate was a deep turquoise, with a nod. The sergeant returned his nod in kind.

"How's it going, Billy?" Peter replied. "Ready for our next OP?"

"Aye, aye." The young French twang replied politely. He returned to prodding the bowl-full of orange liquid in front of him suspiciously with a spoon, causing thin swirls of white to form and ripples to spread out towards the edges of the bowl.

"I wanna know more about that Spartan," replied another voice, this time to his right. It was a well-built, stocky figure with a deep, commanding voice that put anyone he talked to on edge. It was the squad's technical officer, Sean. He was tapping a data-pad hastily, stopping only when the screen turned to a harsh bloody red and an Office insignia rotated slowly in front of him. The resulting wail of an alarm through the pad's speakers drew the gaze of some of the figures eating around him as surely as a table-lamp draws the attention of a brown moth.

"We all do," Peter muttered back. His voice was spiked with annoyance. "I asked the Captain, he said it's classified. Everything about the Spartan! Hell, I don't even know where she is!"

"I don't like it. One day it's gonna turn out that she's a damn innie and she'll shank you as you sleep!" Sean declared, wiggling his fingers over his head in an attempt to seem spooky.

"You're an idiot." was the mutual response.

"If I could get past this ONI firewall…" the Irishman digressed, slumping and lowering his capped head and continuing to work on his data pad fruitlessly.

"I don't like it…" he muttered, almost to himself.

Billy looked up, almost as if to comfort or insult the technician, when a loud crackle of static reverberated through the hall, causing people throughout the canteen to exchange confused glances. The static stopped after a few seconds, replaced by an excitable American voice on the microphone.

"All units taking part in the drop, to the briefing room. I repeat, all units taking part in this operation, get to the briefing room ASAP." It ordered.

"Well, that's us!" the sergeant gazed down at his untouched meal, grabbing his helmet and donning it casually. The trio then stood up almost in unison, shuffling along so close that their shoulders were almost touching as they joined the cluster of 100 or so shock troopers that were funnelling through the great doors that granted them exit.

"I don't like it…" Sean repeated, following at the back of the trio, his head still buried firmly in his futile hacking attempts.

The herd of shock troopers funnelled tightly through well-lit corridors into a large semi-circular room. It was dotted with chairs starting at the back wall and moving down at an angle towards the pedestal at the front, which was flanked by a large holographic map, reminiscent of a lecture theatre. As the trio of shock troopers that made up fire team G_azelle_ took their places at the three seats that came in from the left wall on the third row down, a middle-aged woman took her place behind the pedestal, resting her arms on it with her fingers interlocked.

She was a tall figure, with short-cut auburn hair that was tied into a neat ponytail. Her facial features were well defined, her eyes taking short, precise glances at her crowd. Her mouth, a natural, sandy red, was tightly shut. She tapped the pedestal with an index finger while the shock troopers took their seats and quietened down. Behind her, naturally, was Edmund, the excitable American.

"Welcome," the woman called out, her voice calm and controlled, yet still projecting authority. "You will be dropping to the revived colony of Kholo for this operation." She glanced across the rows, scouting for any disheartened glances from any natives of Kholo that may have been in this unit. There were none, so Edmund had picked well indeed.

She swallowed quietly before continuing, "I am sure you are aware of the situation," she tapped a button on the pedestal, and the map lit up and came to life. It was a top-down topographic map of the area surrounding a large, dense city. Groups of red dots, triangles and circles began to appear across it, and a large residential area in the Northeast corner of the visible urban zone was greyed out, bordered with thick purple lines.

"A group of insurrectionists, calling themselves _Harvest's Revenge, _have taken up a position in this block of the city. We believe their activities are related to the recent bombings and other such terror campaigns to have ravaged Kholo since its recent habitation. You are to drop in on top of them during the night and eradicate them utterly, along with any witnesses you may encounter." She scanned the crowd again, noticing several confused faces. "Any questions?" She teased.

Sure enough, a shock trooper raised a black-armoured hand, to which the woman nodded. "Why are we shooting _civis? _That's not our job!" called the concerned voice of a young Danish woman.

The woman at the pedestal smirked, "You are serving under the Office of Naval Intelligence for this assignment. As you know, we operate in extreme secrecy. Therefore, anyone who is not authorised to witness are operations must not. To do so is the same as _treason_." She emphasized that last word with a hiss of distaste. "Moreover, any shock trooper who wilfully neglects to carry out this order is also a traitor, and will be dealt with as such. Do you understand?" The Dane muttered in disgust, bowing her head in submission.

"Now, do any of you have an intelligent question?" The woman at the pedestal mused again. Another upraised hand granted her reply.

"What's that greyed-out bit on the map?" Sean enquired. Peter glanced over to his comrade, the former's narrowed eyes and trembling lips betraying his suspicion.

"That is what we have dubbed the "Nightmare Zone". No shock trooper is to set foot in that zone. If you do so, your well-being is not our concern and we cannot guarantee your protection."

"In fact," Edmund, who had been standing quietly with his arms behind his back and an outstretched grin plastered on his face, interjected, "We can pretty much guarantee the opposite!"

The woman glared over her shoulder, muttering a forced "Thank you, Officer Edmund." To which the latter nodded.

"Happy to help!"

Sean, however, was not satisfied with this answer. "Why can't we go in?" He probed.

"It's classified."

"What's in there?"

"Classified."

Sean gave up, sighing a long, deep sigh and returning his attention to the datapad, which had run into an ONI firewall yet again.

"Anything else?" The woman asked yet again, to which there were no replies. "Excellent. Suit up, we drop in the morning."

The herd filed out from where it came, Billy and Sean flanking Peter on either side as he walked. "You're too uptight, Sean," the Sergeant muttered.

"What could that mean, Nightmare Zone?" The technician replied, almost distracted. "Why would they hide it from us? I don't like this at all."

"Oui, but you don't like anything, Monsieur." Billy teased with a smile.

"Zip it, Froggy, I'm serious." The Technician returned with a scornful glance.

They kept walking back towards the living quarters when Billy retorted, "Right, right – just like when you were _seriously_ sure that the head of ONI was definitely a Prophet!" He laughed to himself. Peter just stood in the middle, feeling awkward. This bickering was a regular occurrence.

"I thought the symbols were Covenant…" Sean chirped with embarrassment, "They looked so convincing…"

"Right… anyway, I'll see you tomorrow lads." Billy turned where the corridor split, walking down the left corridor where he quickly made conversation with a duo of other shock troopers who were heading the same way. Sean and Peter kept on walking.

"Asshole," Sean muttered when the Frenchman was out of earshot.

"Hey, be nice." Peter scolded with a sideward glance, "You're going to be sitting in the same shit, shooting at the same bogeys and taking the same bullets in the not-so-distant future."

"I know. It's just… Peter, you get me on this right? You know that's fucking weird, even for ONI?" He enquired hopefully.

"Yes… I get it. Just keep your mouth shut and don't go into that zone, and we'll be fine." The sergeant replied with his best attempt at being comforting and thoughtful.

"Right… right." When the corridor split again, they went their separate ways, where they both struggled to sleep, their mind ricocheting with thought after thought about what lay ahead.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N – Sorry that this is late, had a busy weekend, and I was fighting writer's block all through this chapter, but here it is, enjoy. Oh and, reviews would be helpful. **

Peter listened to his own raspy breathing, his helmet hugging him tightly and his silenced M7 pressed against his hip. The bay doors opened with a mechanical whine, letting in a harsh saturated wind that screeched terribly and violently rocked the pod Peter was stood in. He sat waiting, as 99 other comrades were, sat in two rows of charcoal-black pods, one of which Peter was a part, and one which sat opposite in the Charon's transport bay. He watched the intrusive scarlet light through his window, waiting for it to flick to a pleasant lime and signal the start of the operation.

He waited. There was no change.

He waited more. Nothing.

The red turned to green a few moments later, a voice calling "Prepare for drop!" over the COMMs. In an instant, Peter began to viciously rock as his metal sarcophagus plunged towards the Earth. His breathing grew choppy and uneven, and was all he heard save for the droning of rain against the pod, and the whining of air as it was broken through. He caught a glimpse of another pod zipping past him at a sharp angle, spinning viciously and ejecting the large landing parachute from the back. Peter followed suit as he broke the 500 metre mark, the howling of the wind growing quieter and the drumming of the rain growing infrequent.

A large clatter followed by a thump indicated he had landed as his transport ground to a halt. He pressed hard against the pod doors as they gave way, sprawling onto the floor of what appeared to be the upper floor of an office building. A table, split in half unevenly, was led on the carpeted floor in two pieces, splinters covering the gap in-between, from where the pod had impacted. Chairs, cutlery and glasses were spread around like litter from the collision. Peter gazed up at the cloud-clogged, dark blue sky that was visible through a large hole had been bored from the roof down onto this level, charged wires hanging limply and occasionally discharging electricity as they swung.

Peter drew his M7, darting to one of the four closed windows that were attached to the wall opposite him. Activating his HIRV, he glanced quickly over the field of battle, where yells and sporadic bursts of fire indicated that the Insurrectionists had taken up arms to defend themselves. Several green and red outlines would occasionally enter Peter's vision before disappearing behind a building, a car or debris.

"Hey, it's SGT. Abraham. Anyone out there?" He called with uneven breaths.

"Hey, boss!" A quiet French twang replied to him. "You in the office block? We're in the car park outside, me and Sean and two others. Why don't you come down here?"

"Coming." Peter confirmed, turning just in time to hear a loud knock as the door to the staircase swung open, flooding the darkened room with light and a myriad of voices. The shock trooper dropped to the floor, knelt down behind a potted plant that had been knocked onto its side, spilling dirt and resting several wide, flat palm leaves on the carpet. Three young men wandered in, looks of panic plastered on their faces.

"We got UNSC! We got UNSC!" one of them chirped incessantly.

"Calm down, we're not at the armoury. We should be safe up here; none of them'll risk coming up."

"Armoury?" Peter repeated, confusedly, into his radio chatter.

"Oui. That's our first target, boss. It's half a klick northeast, fastest way is across the motorway…"

The Frenchman continued exposition, but Peter's focus was drawn to a single brown boot that had planted itself on the other side of the plant, causing the shock trooper to droop lower by instinct. The foot's owner stopped moving suddenly, his boot planted firmly in place. The Sergeant shuffled hastily to raise his firearm, his sweating trigger finger prepared to send his attacker to an early grave, stopping only when the sickly whiff of tobacco alerted him to the fact that he had not been spotted.

"…got it?" An unexpected voice over radio sent his heart on a rampage.

"Yeah, uh, sure, I'll be down in a sec, uh. A bit busy."

With that, Peter made his move, forcing himself up with such force that the potted plant rolled loudly across the room, causing great clangs as it fell down the cold metal steps and shattered out of sight. The three figures all turned to face the ODST, but not before a quick burst of SMG fire sent the one closest sprawling with a yelp over a table, lying limp with his legs elevated on top of it. The other two began firing in panic, drowning the room in flashing light as they let a rip, tearing holes in the walls around the shock trooper and sending trails of thick dust spewing forth amidst the chaos. Peter cussed loudly, a bullet scraping past his thigh and tearing out a chunk as he dived quickly over a table and opened fire once more. An animalistic whine and a crash indicated that the soldier had hit his mark yet again. The survivor's head snapped to his fallen comrade, his lip beginning to tremble as he threw his weapon down. Peter caught a glimpse of it as it fell with a clatter, and from the shape and size it appeared to be a magnum. Poor kids.

The rebel turned and broke, charging back from whence he came, only to trip over a shard of the shattered bronze pot at the base of the stairs with Peter in hot pursuit. He was sprawled clumsily with his back resting against the cream wall opposite the staircase's entrance, his body peppered with bleeding wounds of various sizes, where his skin wasn't bruised with blue, green or purple. He covered his hands over his head in fright at the sight of Peter advancing, which made the trooper wonder if the rebel propaganda described them just as they used to describe the Covenant. He proceeded to bind the rebel, fighting with effort against his zealous resistance and his cussing, threatening and insulting, before finally gagging him tightly with a wipe and leaving the room in sudden, ominous silence, save of course for the drumming of rain above them. With that, he proceeded down towards the foot of the building, stopping only once to gaze back in pity at his quarrel.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Cancelling the 1 chapter/week thing. I'll spend as much time as I need to make the chapters what I want them to be before I upload, so expect chapters to come up irregularly.**

Out of the open door, the end of a silencer appeared, followed by the rest of the weapon on which it was mounted and the hand in which it was wielded. The owner of the hand crept slowly through to the lobby. The secretary's desk was fortified with sandbags, and behind it lay a dead Innie with a patchy red pool where his left eye would have been. The rest of the lobby was fairly standard – a double-door, blue and grey, was planted into a windowless wall opposite the fortified desk. In the room was all one would expect; dull grey chairs lining well-kept white-washed walls and a small, rectangular wooden table was in the centre of the room, holding up untouched cups of beverage. The only way one could tell that this was the sight of a wider battle was from the scattering of bullet casings across the blue-and-black checked floor, the blackened bullet-holes that lined the wall behind the secretary's desk and directly opposite it, and the repugnant stench of fresh blood from the corpse.

Peter scanned the environment and, once he was sure nobody hostile was in there with him, he said: "Where are you, Billy?"

"Bright yellow van, two spaces in, second row. You can't miss us." The Frenchman responded. His voice was panicked and the rattling of a machinegun in the background gave away why this was. "About those Hogs, boss… We're a bit stuck, can't move."

"Alright, I'm coming," the Sergeant replied. Billy getting stuck was completely normal. "Try not to die, you or Sean, alright?"

"Oui."

The trooper jogged through the double-doors and into the car park, where a dozen or so vehicles were left abandoned on the first row alone. Three figures were huddled behind a bright yellow van labelled "Kholo Shipping &amp; Mail", and a fourth was led lifeless behind them. Peter began to dart towards them when a series of bright flashes from the roof of a house overlooking the park rang out, and the tarmac around him began to spray upwards as the bullets hit it. He leapt behind a pale turquoise 4x4 that was parked at an angle just metres from the office block's entrance. Holding his M7 against his chest, he poked out to look for an opening. A spray of rounds that pin-cushioned the 4x4s roof and bonnet forced him back into cover.

He glanced over to the trio huddled behind the yellow van the lane across from him, with him and Sean – who had tried to get a look at things similarly to Peter, and had been repelled in the same fashion – exchanging nods. They knew how to do this, it was nothing they hadn't trained for. Peter instinctively looked down towards his belt, which housed a cylindrical object, labelled with a thick, horizontal green stripe that ran across its top, just below the pin. He pulled the smoke grenade from its holster, tearing out the pin and lobbing it as hard as he could towards the machinegun nest. It clattered, falling below the entrenched barrel of the gun, before releasing smoke that spread outwards in a thick, hazy smog in every direction. As it rose, the panicked Rebel – evidently not as experienced as his Shock Trooper opponents – began to fire randomly across the park.

Peter and the three other ODSTs rushed out towards the position, with one of the shock troopers, PFC Rickie Laws, falling limp as a stray round tore through her larynx, spraying blood across the rain-soaked tarmac below, which formed a gunky, thick pool. The deceased serviceman collapsed in a heap as the remaining three kept running. Peter arrived at the door first, then Sean and then Billy bringing up the rear. Peter stopped to glance back across the car park where they had made their death run, the panicked gunner above them still bombarding the area with rounds. One round tore into the left headlamp of a small, silver convertible, shattering the light, sending the engine into an explosion that sent orange flame darting skywards and making the alarm whine through the night.

Peter drew a frag grenade from his belt, with Billy doing the same. They threw both of their grenades up and over the roof of the house, down onto the machine-gunner's position. The rattling of fire stopped, replaced by a desperate and frightened screaming and then two explosions, one after the other. All action on the roof ceased.

"Well… job well done." The Irishman muttered through the night.

"Aye, aye." Peter agreed. "Now, those warthogs?"

"'Course, boss," Billy had already begun jogging lightly down the alley, his battle rifle slung over his shoulder as if he was on a PT run. A bit brave. The technician and the Sergeant trailed behind, out into the mouth of a large motorway that curved upwards, its upper route out of view. Parked at an angle facing towards the motorway were three warthogs. Two were the standard variant, mounting a machinegun on a pivot. The one in between was a transport variant, doing away with the armament and replacing it with a large, exposed transport cage. Peter hated those things. The sight of it made his heart jump.

The warthogs were in terrible shape. The one closest had a burst wheel and a chassis that was riddled with bullet-holes and scorch marks, the transport had a shattered windscreen, and the last of the vehicles, easily the best-kept, had its bonnet up and its engine taken apart. The different components were spewed across the ground beneath it, as if the rebels had tried in vain to stop their vehicles from falling into UNSC hands. Sean rushed to put the pieces back together, with the two others covering him.

Not much happened for the next few minutes. The beating of the rain continued, albeit infrequently, and there was nothing to be heard past its rhythmic drumming but the cussing and tinkering of the Irishman behind. But then something caught the attention of Peter, from the corner of his eye. A small, black orb flying past his shoulder. It took him a moment to realise what it was, and that was a moment too late.

The resulting explosion sent Peter diving to his stomach and clutching his head. From the corner of his eyes, through his disrupted vision and past his ringing ears, he saw Billy waving his M7 around in confusion. A blue-striped ODST helmet, its visor broken inwards with segments of glass chiming within the padding, rolled past Peter as he began to stand. A figure was hung over the side of the house facing towards them, no doubt the Insurrectionist which they had failed to kill earlier. The transport warthog had its alarm blaring, and Sean was led wheezing. Thick pools of dark red formed where shrapnel had torn through his ODST BDU.

Billy rushed to aid the fallen technician, shaking with fear as he tried to stop the flow of blood.

"Boss, come help with this!" He called back, his voice now spiked with anger and sadness all in one. "He's bleeding out!"

Peter rushed up to the duo, pulling from his back a small medical kit which he dropped down next to the Frenchman, before turning towards the building from which three ODSTs had been killed off. He beat down the door with a rage-induced swing of the foot, his VISR illuminating the emptiness of the living room, which was crudely fortified with sandbags in ad hoc style. Seeing nothing, he charged up to the roof, ignoring any training he had been given; his head was consumed with the feelings of guilt, as he realised that he let such a stupid mistake almost cost him a squad-mate and friend.

He returned to see Billy lifting the wounded Sean into the passenger seat of the warthog which he had been fixing. It seemed that, apart from the fresh black marks along its side, Sean had done a good job before his misfortune. The healthy roar of the engines as it started up confirmed this.

"Boss, word has come through on the chatter. There's a pretty crude FOB, been made at an old supermarket. I'll take Sean there, you'll have to continue alone."

"Just me, against a whole nest of rebels?" Peter pondered the idea, but understandably he wasn't confident.

"Non, non. Weren't you listening? There must be most of the surviving force surrounding that place, laying siege. I think you'll be fine if you just go join up with them."

"I don't like this…" Peter murmured.

"Please, sir. I've known him longer than you. He's close to me. I don't want no shithead doctor killing him off with some overdose or something. You understand?"

"…Yeah. Ok. Permission given, go on." Peter nodded to the warthog, which began to scream off in the other direction, as he took charge of the transport warthog alone. Sending the engine into a whirring start, he called into his COMMs:

"Hey, anyone near the armoury? Sgt. Abraham, Fireteam Echo-3, I'm coming up."

"Roger that, SGT." Another voice called, this one an old, hardy American. "Join the club, we're about to attack."

The transport 'hog churned up dust as it climbed the motorway and screamed off.


	6. Chapter 6

Planting his hand on the side of the 'hog and climbing out, Peter took note of his surroundings. He had followed the coordinates given to him to this place, an abandoned school converted into an ad hoc staging ground. To the right was a tall, medieval-esque building, likely the hall, around the base of which piles of sandbags had been erected and shock troopers stood idly. His fellows clustered in small groups, no more than 50 of them, and they were chatting calmly, as if they weren't in the middle of a warzone.

Peter began to walk when he was stopped by a capped shock trooper, who snapped him a hasty salute.

"Good to see you, sergeant." The familiar American tone spoke politely, from a face that was fair yet embittered by age. "Welcome to Firebase Trebuchet. A bit rushed, I know." The trooper gazed off to the left, towards an open door that led to a classroom with neat, naval blue walls. Several figures were hunkered around a table eating MREs, and the view of the scribbling of mathematical formulae on a whiteboard behind them made Peter smirk in acknowledgement. "Well, make yourself at home Sergeant."

The Sergeant nodded quickly as the figure turned to the left and Peter walked past. The white marble that made up the main school building in front of him was tarred by the shroud of blackness that caked them, so that it looked dirty and grubby. He entered through a fire exit, into what was a lecture theatre of some kind, but was now a living room. The chairs had all been forced to the walls and replaced by pool tables and wooden chairs, and towards the top of the room, framed against turquoise walls that complimented the naval blue carpet, were vending machines that had evidently been looted as the ODSTs made their stay. Four troopers were busy playing poker, another sat idly and staring at a photo behind them. Peter went and planted himself by the latter.

The man was holding a photograph showing two adult guys cradling a young girl. The man would look dreamily at it, stroking it gently with his right thumb at irregular intervals.

"Pretty girl." Peter complimented.

The man looked up quickly, unaware of his new acquaintance, and stuttered quickly as he tried to meet the unexpected compliment. "Thanks. I hope they're alright, you know? Back on Earth. North America. Izabelle's still in school, I think…" The trooper reeled himself back in. "So, uh. Who do I call you?"

"Peter. Why aren't you with them?" He glanced over his shoulder. As if on cue, what must have been a great shot elicited animalistic howls from the four, one of them plastering a cheesy grin on his face after his success. "Why are you just sat here?"

"Don't want me there. Say I 'hit enough balls as it is'." The man was withdrawn, but not sad, as though he must've been used to such prejudice. "I normally sit on the top of the old church. You can see the Innie base from there. Wanna come? We still have hours until the morning, it's only 0900."

He didn't really want to, but the pity he felt for the man made him agree. "Yeah, sure." He said. Peter followed the man out, turning only to proudly flip the bird at one of the shock troopers' comments of "Wear protection!"

From the rooftop, the top of the skyline was an ominous beauty. It stood against the purple, starless sky as a coal-black that shielded its features from their view. Nothing could be made of their inhabitants, except in one case: a small orange smudge crackled in the distance. The man followed Peter's gaze as he watched it. "Yeah," he began, "Snipers. I do admire them, having the skill they do. Not being too scared to take the shot. Tell you what, if I get killed by a sniper, I'll spend my last breathes tipping my hat to them."

"I hate snipers, they're cowards." Peter responded slightly venomously, before seeking to derail what would be a futile argument. He turned back to silence, looking down where his legs hung and his feet rocked in the cold, howling wind. Below, the shock troopers were moving off into buildings like ants. Peter had to squint to see them through the blackness that gave them camouflage.

The man took off his helmet, laying it down beside him on a broken wall segment. Peter did the same, letting the rain streak over his sweating face. It was oddly rejuvenating, and Peter spent the next few minutes using the rain to clean himself up. He continued to look about, through the night, as the rain continued to settle on his sand-shaded hair and run down, past his blue eyes and over his pale, sharply contoured features. He winced slightly, his features contorting, as a blast of cold wind hit him.

The man next to him was a ginger, with no sharpness in his features. He had several feminine qualities, notably his lips – evidently coated generously with lipstick – which were large and naturally puckered back. Peter just smirked, to which the man asked: "You don't hate me, do you?"

"No, no. It's just not a sight I see every day."

"If you do, I'll go."

"Don't worry. Variety is the spice of life."

"You're the only one who thinks that."

Silence fell in the following minutes, leading to an awkward and ominous feeling that crept through the bell tower. Peter awkwardly reached into a hip satchel, pulling forth a ration bar which he proceeded to quietly nibble at. Another few minutes of awkward silence fell, before a sharp, quick jolt of lightning elicited a perfectly synchronized jump from the duo, along with a moan of "Fucking hell" in unison.

"Well, I think we should sleep." Peter said. "I'll see you tomorrow." The man nodded in agreement as Peter began to descend down the stairs, where the air was cold and hung close to him. Heading back outside, he found a quiet, dry corner beneath an old bicycle shelter, where he shuffled continuously, failing to get any sleep before the morning ahead.


	7. Chapter 7

"How many?" Called Peter, advancing hastily towards the line where the attack force had been assembled. Every man and woman who wasn't too traumatised or cowardly or wounded to take part was lined up here, in the school's main field. About 30 of them, by his quick counts, were available for the final push. Their coal uniforms, embalmed by the honey-yellow hue of a sun that was making its appearance during the early hours, stood largely out of place against the backdrop of overgrown grass that rubbed the bottom of the knee, and they were plagued by nervous, uncertain jitters, stutters and moans.

The LT, who was pacing to and fro with eyebrows clamped down over his eyes and his mouth contorted into a fatigue-burdened frown, greeted Peter's query with an equally unmotivated shrug. Another trooper, from within the line, stepped out to offer a suggestion.

"Well, they're like ants. Ain't they?" He was met by a few hesitant, piteous laughs from the figure on either side, their helmets turning slowly to face him. His eyes began to fall stray, darting about without purpose, and his face began to fill; his cheeks slowly turning to a rich lavender. "Well, I mean, you squash one, maybe. Say two. And then one day you unearth the whole hill and there's hundreds."

Everyone began to nod as they wrapped their heads around the analogy. A few hesitant smirks and bouts of laughter followed, before silence settled again. With a bestial roar of orders from the Lieutenant, they began to disperse unevenly towards the front.

Peter dropped to the rear of the line, his sub-machinegun now replaced by a black-coated MA5 that hung from one shoulder, every so often tapping his elbow as he walked. He dropped towards the rear of the crowd that were making their way to the bridge, the other side of which was home to the main Innie base in the region – a Misriah-Traxis armoury that they had taken amidst the ensued chaos. Everyone was silent save for a few withdrawn grunts, Peter included, until a tap on the shoulder brought him back to reality.

"Hey." A voice spoke, the man from before. "Be careful, yeah?"

"Yeah."

They were at the bridge now, and from what Peter could see there was nothing but dispersed piles of dampened newspapers and discarded cigarettes to provide cover. Peter gulped and glanced around, seeing that his fellows were emitting the same signals of sudden nervousness. This was gonna be a bloody one.

A crackle washed over Pete's helmeted head as a voice entered the COMM channel. It was the LT.

"Alright, jarheads. On my mark, you run. Don't look back." His voice was monotone, which contrasted with the anticipation and caution that his words elicited.

A few seconds of silence passed, before the hated word rang through: "Mark."

The whole group dispersed and ran.

The silence that had befallen previously was broken abruptly by the crackling of rounds being disgorged towards the Shock Troopers. All around them shards of concrete were torn skywards as bullets missed their mark and impacted the bridge. Peter's head twitched frantically as he tried to find some form of cover and, seeing that there was none, he dived into a pile of discarded magazines, belly-first. Most of his comrades followed suit, seeking safety wherever it presented itself; looking around he saw only four bodies thus far, two of which were housing slight movements and letting out pained yelps.

Looking forward he could see, to his right, a handful of ODSTs had made it to a store opposite the armoury, where they huddled with rifles in tow. Occasionally one of their number would peer around to let out a burst of fire towards the rebels that had revealed themselves to be spread out across a makeshift blockade car doors, storage crates and wooden furniture. The armoury, too, was home to their foe: A flare of orange from a window two levels up made a trooper collapse with a thump. Peter felt his breathing pick up speed at the sight.

Peter gulped loudly, stumbling clumsily to his feet and running to the left, over the bridge, where he planted his back against a tall green oak that grew proudly in front of a brown brick wall, no taller than two metres. He slid down to regain his breath even as the din of war rang out – the yelling of comrades, the crackling of fire and the unending shredding of bullets impacting concrete and tarmac. He turned to an ally over his shoulder, exchanging with them a hasty nod as he stood. He was ready to make his move.

And so he did, bringing his MA5 up and In front of him and turning the corner with purpose and speed that only a trained soldier could possess, with his comrade sticking closely to his shoulder with a deep, strained grunt. A dozen Insurrectionists were entrenched here, at the armoury's entrance, where they had been locking down the Shock Troopers on the other side of the bridgehead. They hid against the wall, behind wooden crates and in-between tall metal pillars that supported the doorway proper. The two ODSTs opened fire, taking down two of them before they responded in kind, letting out a hail of magnum, rifle and machinegun fire that narrowly missed Peter, and instead cored the one stood behind him. Peter stooped lower even as his comrade-in-arms fell lifeless, cooking a frag grenade which he tossed with newfound indignation and a need for revenge. Predictably, the traitors broke cover, and within seconds afterward had been felled by the combined fire of the Sergeant and other ODSTs that had entrenched nearby.

With this group cleared, Peter prepared for the breach of the armoury itself. The din of fire had ceased all across the battleground – it seemed that what remained of the rebel presence had withdrawn. Black figures ran, stumbled and hobbled over towards the Sergeant. Thanks to the stupid attack, they were again down to near-enough half their number. 17 men, including him, were left now. The thought of it stirred a fire inside Peter that made him grit his teeth. Similar displays of anger and frustration – a loud swear here, a scraping of gloved hand against plating there, were shared by the others.

Immediately the Shock Troopers, faces shaped by discipline, prepared to breach. Eight troopers shuffled into line on either side, Peter closest to the door hinge on the right hand side. Another covered them. Peter glanced back for a moment, knowing full-well that breaches were normally dirty work. He took in the surroundings he found himself in, taking solace in knowing the place which might become his grave. Birds of all sizes and colours, unperturbed by the recent din of war, had settled in high places. Indeed, their songs, shared back and forth between groups, could be heard from within trees, across roofs and atop street lights and rain shelters. The peace and tranquillity that they exuded with their presence made the soldiers feel at ease, despite the situation. It was a welcome sight for them.

He returned his focus to the task at hand, pivoting so his body was facing the door. He pressed a hand against the cold, blue metal and pushed gently, opening it wide enough for a cat to slide through. He took a glance at his comrade on the other side, who aimed forward in preparation, before taking a cautious glance himself. Seeing nothing, he opened the door still further until he could comfortably slide through.

Then he froze, a dozen frightened eyes set upon him. They were not hostiles – surely, if they had been, he would be dead by now. They were children, women, men not called up to fight for either side. They were just extremely unlucky, and now here they were. He advanced a few metres, scanning his surroundings along with the rest of the breaching team that had filed in to his rear. They were in a reception area, its white-washed walls adorned with posters filling every criteria, from safety precautions for when you are "handling *your* new weapon around the kids!" to plaques detailing the history and events undertaken by Misriah-Traxis, fit into classy silver frames. In the middle of the room, atop a blood-soaked turquoise carpet, 20 or so civilians had been forced to kneel, their arms tied behind their backs with no care for the prisoners' comfort. They made up a block four people deep and five people long, with space in the middle for a man to walk through in any direction. Their eyes were dragged down by blackening sacs, their mouths varying between fumbling uncontrollably and being silent, cold and purple. They were workers, teachers, housewives and kids. The only similarity this unfortunate pack had in unison was the resigned look of hopelessness that emanated from them.

The shock troopers set about freeing the hostages from their shackles. Peter was in the left-hand corner, helping out a young, pretty girl with sharp features and cleanly-combed chestnut hair that fell curving over her ears. She looked no older than 10, and when she was freed, and when she had assured herself of that fact with rub of her reddened wrists, she wrapped her arms around his waist with a quick, chirped "thank you." Peter patted her gently on the back, looking down in time to notice a pair of discarded shackles. He glanced over her back, which was dressed in a short black t-shirt that made home for stains from various sources, to see if that had belonged to her, but when he saw another grey rope lying there behind her, he grew cautious.

Pushing the girl away gently, he crouched down to analyse the discovery even as she set about helping someone to their right. The ropes had been chopped in a hurry, two brown pieces spewed across the carpet. They had been separated by a sharp, uneven knife-cut, giving away the fact that this must have been in a hurry. _Odd, _Peter thought. _Where else would you put them?_ Further analysis showed that there were many artefacts of this nature spread out to the right equidistantly in the same manner as the hostages that were present were organised. _This would be too many for all of us to head for… It would mean some of us would have to advance, or hang back… _

As Peter descended into paranoid thought, another feature that they had missed before came upon him: a subtle beeping, easy to miss but hard to ignore if one became aware of it. It was muffled by metres of material, but seemed to be coming from above. Peter's eyes widened, matching those of the hostages, the last of whom were being freed now. He rushed forward to drag the girl back, praying to God that he was wrong.

"What the hell!?" She cried.

Peter wanted to respond, but couldn't before the explosion rang out, and he was sent careening into the back-most wall. He sat, his helmet tumbling down his shoulders. Unlike last time, however, nobody was on-hand to help him. He looked around, seeing naught but a pile of newly-found rubble that clogged the room, forming in a large hemisphere that stopped only metres from any one side. Directly ahead of him, beneath a splintered plank of wood and a shard of charcoal, was the tender white hand of the young girl, spread out in a looseness that could hold no life, bloodied and dust-stained palm facing skywards. Peter stared at it, suddenly burdened by a weighty sense of shock and guilt. He was a **fucking **ODST, how did he not see that earlier!?

Through it all, a charming, posh voice made contact with the fallen Trooper.

"Good show, boys, good show indeed!"


	8. Chapter 8

A gunshot rings out. Peter wakes, gasping loudly, sweat careering down his enclosed forehead. Ode to the sack on his head, he cannot see, but his hearing is unimpaired:

"Next one. Who are you?" a familiar poshness enquires.

"I... I'm, uh..." a pause, followed by loud raspy breathing, "Corporal… Corporal Franklin, 3rd division of... of shock troopers…"

"Five words for why I should let you live?"

"I... can give you information…"

The owner of the posh voice smirks in resignation. "Whatta y'think, lads? Let him live?" The man waits a few seconds as the myriad of mumbled responses are brought to him. "Nah, I don't think so. Heard it before." A few seconds of silence set in, followed by another gunshot. "Next one."

The sack is lifted from Peter's face and he gazes around aimlessly as his eyes adapt to the invasive light.

"What do I call you, _mate_?" The voice speaks out again, from behind the shock trooper. A figure steps into view from the right, his lower half visible to the incarcerated Peter. He wears navy blue jeans, exposed wounds showing the result of years of wear and tear. His feet are hidden within damp red sneakers with hastily done-up white laces.

"Sergeant Peter." The ODST muttered with a spit of flem. He glanced up at his captor with hateful eyes, and the look was returned by a pair of thin shades that concealed everything from the figure's eyebrows down to midway up his nose. "3rd division…"

"Hey there, Pete!" the posh voice was unnaturally calm and condescending. "Five reasons why I should let you live?"

Resigned to his fate, the shock trooper didn't think to be disciplined or polite; "Oh, I'll offer loadsa sexual favours, obviously!" He smirked to himself.

A slightly force smirk was sent back to him. "I like this one. We'll let him live for now. Next!"

"So, who are you…" the posh interrogator continued on with his next victim, whilst Peter took the opportunity to look around.

On the back of the steel-plated wall is a white symbol depicting Misriah-Traxis. That, along with the cold, sharp wind, led the trooper to believe that they were at the top of their target. The irony didn't faze the ODST, it was probably just for the amusement of their captor.

"Ah, a Gabriel. I knew a Gabriel once…" the posh voice resumes.

Aside from the interrogator, who was a thin, albino figure that oozed an irritating familiarity to Peter, there were four Innies dotted about the room. Each of them had in hand an old version of the MA5, probably the B series, but aside from that they shared no similarity. They were like a gang of thugs in that regard; one was encased in a crude American football garb with the notable red fist of the URF painted across his left breast. Another, stood to the right of this one, was in a navy blue tux, fit with a striped tie. Why someone of such suave would join _these _people, Peter could not guess.

The last two remained out of sight, hiding where the dim light projected by a table lamp could not reveal them. They were stood at the back corners of the room with rifles in hand, as disciplined as normal soldiers.

Peter leaned past one of the guards on his right to get a better look, getting reeled back into the back of the wooden chair on which he was bound. The guard looked down at him with hateful pearl eyes and laughed. He moved his head back, looking past the hoody-clothed, sewn up arm of his captor and the guard made no attempt to stop him.

Two more captured troopers were next to him in a gentle horseshoe formation, each bound to a wooden chair as he was. The man whom was being interrogated at the moment was the last one in the group, and the man directly to Peter's right, the man with the photo, had been spared. Looking to his left, he saw four others who were not so lucky, each sitting limp; a bullet hole oozing blood from their foreheads.

The captive immediately next to Peter had been spared by the mysterious figure, who swaggered over to his last victim, sunglasses glinting in the artificial light. The two ODSTs exchanged glances of fear and uncertainty. When the last ODST had been deemed unworthy and executed, the leader walked back into view and stood between Peter and his surviving comrade.

"You're gonna be our message to the UNSC. There won't be any fascists here." He mused to himself, sharp pale features readjusting into a triumphant smirk.

"Hey, Boxer?" The rebel in the red hoodie asked his leader. "What if it doesn't work?"

"It will work." Boxer hissed back. The rebel stood back into line, as if he knew better than to question any further.

Peter and the other Helljumper were removed from their bindings and guided down a myriad of staircases, past conference rooms, firing ranges and recreation grounds, to the bottom of the building. Great, right where he'd started.

The journey would've been naught but humiliating and uneventful, but when the group filed into the main reception area, Boxer brought his guards to a halt.

"Stay inside. Make sure we didn't miss anyone." He ordered, glaring at the pile of rubble where his ambush had blunted the UNSC attack.

"Yes, sir." One of them spoke. They fanned out.

"Come along, you two. Time for a _world _of fun!" He smirked again, amused at his own sadism.

The ODSTs were guided out towards a blackened Cougar, engine humming in dull life and lights piercing the veil of darkness that had fallen. They'd been in captivity for hours. The two captives were forced at gunpoint into the troop bay, which Boxer then sealed. He retreated out of sight.

"What a load of shit." The man next to Peter swore. "Not the way I imagined meeting you again."

"Amen to that, mate." Peter breathed deeply, revelling in a moment to recollect – the first he had been granted since he was woken up.

"We'll get out of here, don't you worry." The man smiled at Peter warmly. His coating of lipstick had worn away by now, such that the lips which framed his nervous smile were a dull magenta rather than maroon.

"Heh, you bet we will." Peter returned the optimism.

"You know, we should get all the survivors of this FUBAR op, go hit the bar or something. Have a kick around."

"Dude, aren't you married?"

The two began to chuckle, and the weight of all that was grim and lethal began to recede. The light at the top of the troop compartment, inches from the nearest cupola, seemed to brighten up in line with the mood.

"And then we'll, like, go to Reach or somethin'. Someplace nice-"

"Quiet, quiet!"

"Alright, not Reach-"

"Listen! They're yelling!" Peter's eyes were focussed out of the viewport in front of him, where the four Insurrectionists were milling around in shock. One of them had pointed skywards, and whatever they had seen scared them into frantic action. They ducked for cover, reloaded their weaponry, yelled to each other in hastened preparation.

"Something in the sky…" Said Peter.

"The sky? Fuck off! _Please _don't be covies!" The Helljumper yelped in fear.

At that moment, something landed in the middle of the road with a crash, sending billows of dust rolling in every direction and making the tarmac crack violently. It was a UNSC drop pod. It was facing away from the Cougar, but the obvious sound of its contents being unloaded rang out.

Immediately gunfire lit up the night. Volleys of rifle and magnum fire were met by the occasional ring of a sniper rifle firing. Each time this was heard, a rebel dropped dead; their heads cored and falling inwards like a tomato. When only one rebel remained, the firing of the aggressor's rifle stopped, and a voice spoke out, followed by a scream:

"I finally get to have some fun-fun-fun!" A female voice giggled with childish glee.

Peter's comrade had opened the Cupola, driven onwards by morbid curiosity. He pointed out, yelling down to Peter: "Hey, it's one of our's!" Before another shot rang through the night, punching through the unfortunate's chestplate and making blood seep out. Where it had hit, on the right of the man's breastplate, a soggy patch of clotting formed. The man slid down through the hatch, coughing and wheezing on a seat. His breathing was sporadic. He attempted to cry, but found himself incapable.

Peter tried to help him out, but there was no use. Sure enough, the man was resigned to his fate. He reached into his pocket, drawing forth his prized photograph, and yelled out in horror at what he saw; where his partner and child were stood had been torn apart by the bullet travelling through, leaving only him, alone. At this he began to openly wail in sadness, crying heartily and burying his head in his arms. Soon after the crying stopped and the shock trooper fell limp, leaving Peter alone.


	9. Chapter 9

There was a thump, followed by loud hasty breathes. Peter glanced through the windows of the abandoned gold land rover that he was using as concealment, at the purple suit of armour that was stomping calmly forwards, down the road. He was all alone out here. With that.

The Spartan stopped, staring through a silver visor ahead of her. Peter's breathing spiked and he spun, planting his back against the wheel and door of his cover.

"Come on li'l Innie!" A woman's voice chirped through the silence. "I feel so cold and lonely!"

The voice died down and the stomping of mechanical feet resumed, getting louder with every other step. Peter glanced up, his face drenched generously with sweat, up to the window. Through it he saw the broken reflection of the silver-black visor of his hunter, clenching his fists until he felt them going numb and white.

Another few steps. She was past the bonnet of the car now. He could see the edge of her boot and the barrel of her rifle. He closed his eyes in resignation. Another step, and another. Silence.

Peter shivered, opening his eyes and tilting his head slowly. She was facing away from him.

"There you are!" She chuckled.

"No, no! I surrender, I surrender-"

The Spartan tilted her head at the unseen victim, slinging her rifle onto her back and breaking into a bestial sprint. Peter bolted to his feet, backing away from his hunter. A darkened figured was stumbling desperately away from her, between a trio of cars, but to no avail. The screams of the man sent shock through the air as she pinned him to the car and punched, and punched.

Peter had broken into a desperate sprint himself, gaining distance from his attacker as she dealt with her prey. He ran through a clear white door into what looked to be a supermarket, leaning against a shelf of sauces and spices to regain his breath.

He hugged the cold, litter-strewn floor when the Spartan returned, dragging the lifeless body of the Insurrectionist behind her. She laid it on the floor just outside the door, running a finger over its chest until she found his dog tag, which she took for herself. Then she pulled up his right hand, laying it flat against the window and wrapping her armoured fist around the trigger finger. She pulled.

Peter cringed at the sight as an expanding patch of blood burst onto the window when the finger came loose. The Spartan tilted her head curiously, peeling the finger from the tattered glove-finger that had accompanied it and dropping it into a small satchel that was attached to her waist.

"I will be the best shot… I will, I was always told that." Her voice was strangely posh and articulate, belying her venomous and psychotic undertones. "If nobody can pull the trigger, nobody can be a better shot… and he will be right…" She laughed childishly to herself, wiping moisture from her visor before lobbing the mangled corpse over a nearby civilian warthog.

Peter backed up, shuffling along the floor so as to not draw attention. He made it to the back end of the shelf and began to turn, when his foot clipped the shelf to his left. The falling tins and cans made a horrible, echoing din. The Spartan smiled, her head unmoving.

"Yet you can still shoot, marine, yes. You… can still shoot." She sighed in frustration. "Well, we can't have that, so I guess it's only fair I deal with you, too!" She yelled through the night, her head darting up and her visor catching the Shock Trooper in its gaze.

Peter's breathing spiked as he turned and broke into a clumsy sprint, over clattering foodstuffs and out the back door with a thump. He darted left, into the back-alley with a streetlight casting the end in light. He heard the heavy sprinting steps of his pursuer and every thump made his heart jump.

He was halfway down the alley now. A rifle shot spiralled past him, popping the streetlight ahead of the shock trooper in a hail of filament that receded into darkness. Peter staggered in confusion, his sight impaired, when a metallic hand gripped him by the neck and flung.

The ODST flew out of the alley, arms and legs flailing, landing stomach-down onto his assault rifle and gasping for breath. He flipped onto his back, scuttling back, deeper into the road. The purple Spartan bent down and picked him up again, landing a firm punch into his gut which sent blood leaking out of his mouth. Hanging him in mid-air with one hand, the other gripped his elbow and pulled. The shock trooper screamed out, his vision blurring as the forearm came loose.

Over the Spartan's shoulder, two expanding yellow dots came into hazy view. They were growing exponentially, leaking out into the blackness as the owner advanced towards them. The vehicle's motor stopped, a harsh mechanical spinning sounding out. The Spartan dropped Peter's body and turned in time to eat a barrage of machine gun rounds.

She darted back down the alley, the force of fifty bullets making her shields flare yellow. The machine-gun fire stopped, a trio of men advancing towards Peter.

"Shit, man." An Irish voice spoke out. "She beat the crap outta ya's."

"Bill, come over here and help me lift him."

"Who was that?" The young French voice spoke back. "Some Innie operative? Will it come back?"

"I don't know…" Sean stopped thoughtfully, pulling off his helmet and crouching down, his brow furrowed. "Come on, Pete. Let's get you fixed back up."

The two Helljumpers lifted him from either side into the passenger seat, with Sean taking the wheel, Billy manning the gun and the final man sliding into the backseat.

"Try to get off the ship and we'll kick your sorry ass." Billy murmured venomously even as the engine roared into life.

"Yeah, I know, I won't." The unknown responded quietly and monotonously.


	10. Chapter 10

**Feel free to review. I don't mind if it's negative, honest. I find it helpful and it's always a nice thing to see when I check in. Chapters also go up irregularly because I don't have a schedule, so I can always consider what's said in reviews. **

Peter awoke to the sound of a high-pitched beep off to his right. Straight ahead of him, two lights shone brightly and obscured his vision. He felt no pain, though his left leg and arm were both numb. He forced his head forwards, glancing over a blue bedsheet which concealed his body. The room he inhabited was clean and the walls of metallic panels shone and glimmered with the aftermath of someone's time and effort.

He forced himself up into a sitting pose, moaning with fatigue. His vision was still blurred; his leg still numb. The light had receded now and the room was quiet save for the ambience of people going about their routines outside; periodically, Peter could see fuzzy grey figures sliding past the door in pairs and trios and large groups.

That was when he heard the gentle female hums of a corpsman who he had not noticed before now. She sat next to him, her face at an angle from him but her eyes sat in the corners of their sockets, watching him with formal concern. In her left hand a black ink pen rolled between index and ring finger, and her other hand was planted on her knee. She observed a heart-beat monitor to the left of the hell jumper that beat with regular pulses and the healthy signs prompted her to sigh with tired relief.

"You're pretty beat up." She murmured with a smirk, adding with a temperament of kindness: "Not that that's an insult. Was a Spartan, after all?"

"Was a Spartan." Peter repeated.

"Yeah." The corpsman frowned. "You may feel numbness here," she placed a finger on her knee and ran it down her leg, "and here," she did the same with her right forearm.

"Yeah… uh, from the battle?"

"From the battle. They were so mangled after what happened that I had to add prosthetics. You'll get used to it." She smiled warmly and flicked a bundle of caramel hair from her eyes. She was perhaps in her late 20s and her skin gleamed healthily with years of tireless cleaning and attention. She wore standard marine overalls, coloured in khaki, with a white shoulder plate and helmet, each donning the medical symbol of the Marine Corps. There was a resonance of comfort and warmth about her; she was very suitable as a corpsman and the calmness with which she handled this situation made Peter feel awkward.

"So, when you're ready, stand up," she spoke again, "Oh, and, don't look at the wiring and collapse like the last one – some Innie, I think. He only had to have a finger done." She tutted to herself and smiled awkwardly, her gaze drifting off to the left. "Oh!" She snapped at last, "Yes, anyway – stand when you're ready."

Peter chuckled and at the sight of her embarrassment ceased hastily; himself now sharing in her awkwardness. He stood up and forced a loud cough. The corpsman raised an eyebrow and bit down on the lid of her ink pen. The battered ODST stood and her eyes rose with him.

Peter's numbed leg, which he now saw was in fact a prosthetic, refused to lock into place and buckled. He stumbled forward, steadying himself against a plastic chair and using it as a support.

"You'll get used to it," the corpsman muttered with an amused smile, "does it hurt at all?"

"Erh, no, thank you, miss."

"I'ma marine, just like you. Don't need to be so polite."

She wasn't just like him. She conducted herself with a self-assurance that was less arrogance and more a mature sense of urgency. Peter imagined that she'd be a good person to have by one's side during the Human-Covenant war; and then he thought about that horrible time… It had been half a decade since war's end but the terrible memories he had accumulated still hung gloomily with him. The hissing of plasma fire, the butchers that occurred… His gaze fell to some imaginary distance off on an imaginary horizon and the corpsman noticed. A loud click of the fingers tethered him back into reality.

"Oh, right – too polite. Gotcha."

"Right… anyway, when you're ready." She gestured for him to stand and he did so, leaving the support of the armchair.

Peter was examined for the next few minutes. He had to bend and elevate his prosthetic leg to varying degrees, had to flex the mechanical digits of his left hand in repeating patterns, had to practice sudden actions – a quick punch, for example – to make sure nothing was unusual. Luckily for him, nothing was.

"Alright, that's it. Give me a second, I'll be right back." The Corpsman stood, tucked her ink pen over the folds of one ear and walked through the single door of blurred glass that sat metres to Peter's right. The shock trooper sat in quiet for a few minutes, analysing the medical equipment that he could see.

The steady rhythm continued to his right and below him. He looked down at the spiking blue line that bounced in a small computer monitor. His heart was beating regularly enough.

_Good. At least there's nothing wrong with that._

Above this monitor stood another, displaying a human figure with the skeleton shown. It was all white except for the left arm, which, from wrist to elbow, flickered with deep red incessantly. His left leg up to the knee, along with his three lowest ribs on the left side, flickered in similar fashion. Text rolled horizontally across the screen, detailing the harm that had befallen these areas. Peter read solemnly, his pursed lips being weighed down by an onset of glum realisation.

_Ribs fractured beyond repair… shin and forearm replaced by prosthetics… I'm basically a robot._

Another item on another monitor still caught his attention. It looked like a picture, captured from the HUD within a helmet. Judging from its contents; a blurred purple mist that vaguely resembled a sprinting humanoid, with a shimmering yellow curve marking its head, it was his. He felt his eye twitching.

_I'm a robot. Just like her. Just like this bitch._

He felt overcome with a sudden rage; a rush of heat through his toes and up his body that made him jolt and slam his wired fist into the desk. It groaned and bent inwards, more damaged than any human fist could manage. He felt himself getting angrier, and inside his head his thoughts were getting quicker and less legible. The only thing that tethered his fury was a different heat, that of a human gaze against his shoulder. He turned to face this person.

The corpsman was stood, wielding narrow eyes. Behind her, two men were eyeing Peter up with curiosity and confusion. The man on the left was wearing a fine formal attire of the navy, with a golden trim. It was finely-kept. His eyes were shrouded by thick sunglasses but his mouth gave his identity away certainly enough; a thin, nonsensical grin cried out that this was Edmund. The man on the right – an ODST just like him, whose helmet would face Peter and then drop downwards to a data-pad which he tapped furiously, as a teenager would a mobile phone. Sean. The familiar figure forced Peter to smile.

Edmund coughed politely and glanced over at Sean, who spoke quickly: "Hey, Pete. You know, back on the frigate, I said our girl might be a rebel?"

"Yeah?"

He returned Edmund's glance and the operative nodded. Sean spoke again: "I was right! I was _bloody _right! Typical Spartan…"

The Irishman broke into a rant about Spartans that entertained the attention of him and him only, though when it began the corpsman chuckled. Edmund spoke his line with a familiar excitability: "Mission for you has changed, trooper. I know you've had it rough" – he glanced back at the monitors behind Peter – "but you survived down there when so many others didn't. We could use your help. _I _could use your help." His grin widened, and he pulled open the door. Sean filed out, the corpsman returned to her seat, and Edmund spoke once more: "After you."

As he approached the door, the corpsman from behind him spoke with formal concern: "I had better not see you in here again. Being in here is bad news, trooper."

"Noted."

As Peter walked alongside Sean, with Edmund metres in front (he had, in his misplaced enthusiasm, overtaken the two soldiers), Peter could not help but feel suspicion at the suited figure that strolled within his view, laughing at nothing in-particular and clicking and humming to a made-up tune, though he put this down only as the impression that _everyone _got from Edmund, and thought nothing more of it.


	11. Chapter 11

"Sean," Edmund spoked from the front of the ship's bridge, "If you would be so kind?"

"Sure thing." The Hell jumper tapped at his data pad, which beeped. The glass in the table that sat in the room's centre shone blue and a 3-dimensional projection flickered into being. It was a projection of a city block, rotating gently counter-clockwise, featuring everything from apartment blocks, to offices, to streetlights and cars. Peter grunted and stood up to get a better look.

"This is where our target is – The Spartan, of course." Edmund explained, ringing the outside of the city with his finger. "We want you to go down after her, Peter."

"Really? You know what happened last time." He spat angrily and lifted his prosthetic arm. In the artificial light, his ceramic palm and joints glimmered. He followed the trail of the wiring that held it together even as Edmund began speaking again: "True, and that's unfortunate. Very much so, but we have an ace up our sleeve now. A saving grace."

"And what would that be? She's a _fucking _Spartan. You know the stories." Peter protested. Out of the corner of his eyes, Sean watched him like a Hawk. Peter spared him a glance and he nodded slightly, in agreement at his caution.

"True, most true indeed!" Edmund let out a cheeky grin, "but now so do we!" He flicked a hand out past the two ODSTs, who followed it to the opening door. Four figures stood in line, encased in thick titanium suits that were unmistakably MJOLNIR. Each had a thin red and white strip across their pauldrons to designate their squad, but apart from that there was little regulation in their appearances; the figure closest to the left gazed about the room beneath the violet shimmer of a recon helmet, whilst the Spartan second from the right lifted up a CQB helm. To perch a cigarette between his lips.

"This is my little pet project for this op!" Edmund burst into childish cackling, like a toddler chasing down his parent with a gushing hose. "Gentlemen, step forward please." He gestured with his index finger and the Spartans approached with a cacophony of deep stomps. "This is Fireteam Raven, the first of the next generation Spartans to see active duty above the UNSC Subterfuge!"

"UNSC Subterfuge?" Peter interrupted. He hadn't heard of a UNSC Subterfuge; the Charon on which he was last stationed had the designation of Blackjack.

"Oh, yes. I forgot to mention your change of station, Shock Trooper. Go now, you and your friend are dismissed. I'm sure he'll inform you of the situation, but I have to give the brief to the four Spartans, if I may."

"Of course." Peter nodded and Sean followed suit. Then, both of them peeled away from the holotable and walked off towards the door, past the four Spartan IVs.

"Shit, mate." Sean muttered once they had rounded the nearest corner. "One of the Spartans was watching me like a hawk."

"We're ODST, Sean, you know how well we get along with Spartans."

"Fuckin' freaks still, just like in the war, Pete. Not everythin's changed." Sean pulled up his helmet and spat a blob of flem In front of Sean, who stopped and watched as it seeped through the grating below.

"Yeah, don't remind me of the war. Besides, we could use the help for this, if it's what I assume we're doing."

"Yep," Sean nodded, "We're still going after that Spartan bitch. The one who took yer arm, you know."

"Yes," The Sergeant glared at Sean, and though the former was still hidden behind his visor, the Irishman realised his folly.

Sean then filled Peter in on the details. He told Peter that they were aboard a Prowler, the UNSC Subterfuge, separate from the rest of their battalion. Peter nodded. The claustrophobic corridors, the dark grey of the walls, the suspiciousness of the fellow crewmen who averted their eyes when they past the troopers, and let their idle chatter fall into hushed whispers? This was an ONI vessel alright.

"Anyway, two more things. There's an AI on this ship, does what Edmund tells it to; don't be alarmed if it pops up uninvited anytime. He gives it all the info on everyone aboard and lets it act as it deems helpful. I think. It popped up when I was in the shower just yesterday; offered to open the towel cabinet for me because 'my hands were wet'."

"Noted. And?"

"Your dorm's number 27, East Wing." Sean pulled from a satchel a key with the dogtag "27E" engraved within it. He chucked it at Peter, who caught it and nodded. They parted as the hallway did and went their separate ways.

Minutes later, Peter was led on his bunk. He couldn't sleep, and didn't feel the inclination to try; he was fatigued, but incapable. He slowly flexed each digit on his mechanical hand, and each appendage on his mechanical toe, listening to the metallic churning and the crackling of electricity with a demeanour that gradually felt as weighted as his alertness. He tucked his prosthetic arm behind his back.

_Out of sight, out of mind. As they say._

He managed to drift into sleep.

That is, until a filtered and monotonous voice aroused him.

"Hello there, Trooper, ODST, Peter Abraham." It chimed. Peter bolted upright, staring as best he could towards where he remembered the door was. He could scarcely pierce the shroud of darkness in the room, as all lights were turned off, and when he tried to stand he tripped and staggered, righting himself with a palm against the cold wall.

"If Peter Abraham doesn't mind, I took the liberty of shutting off all the lights and electronic devices with a localized Electromagnetic pulse. Don't worry, you were fast asleep. No harm befell you, and your limbs should be functioning now." It droned.

"Wha… Who is this?" Peter's head felt loose as it darted about his person.

"Oh, I do apologise to Peter Abraham for the confusion. I am Lucifer, native shipboard AI aboard the UNSC Subterfuge. I handle all the duties necessary as a Smart AI, as well as providing suitable persons, such as Peter Abraham's self, access to information, advice and healthy suggestions as appropriate."

"A smart AI? You don't sound like a smart AI…"

"Indeed, Peter Abraham." He began to talk as Peter shuffled back and sat on his bunk again. He tapped his helmet lightly and the built in lights strobed for a second, then calmed, illuminating the room unobtrusively.

"Just Peter."

"Of course, Just Peter. I have been built in such a manner as to forego all the things that plague you 'people'. Emotion, empathy, et cetera. This is to prevent such tragedies as the downfall of certain other AIs."

"I see." Peter didn't get the reference, but the sudden venom which spiced the otherwise monotonous grating of an AI dared him not question.

"Anyway, Just Peter. I advise you enter the _CoSimc_, or Combat Simulation Centre. Fitted to all Prowler vessels currently in service. I have deduced that allowing Just Peter to habilitate to his newfound robotics in mock combat scenarios is crucial to ensuring the success of this mission."

"I get it, yeah, Lucifer. Sure." Peter wiped one eye, then another, moaning sharply as the cold ceramic plates of his left hand dug into his eyelid and made it ache dully.

"Splendid, Just Peter. I have added directions to your HUD's map. Take your time. I will always be around."


	12. Chapter 12

Lucifer breathed through the intercom. He didn't have to, being an AI, and such a thing was unusual among the dumb AIs. Normally only the smart AI variants would engage in such human action, but Peter assumed the breathing was to set the scene.

"Are you ready, Just Peter?"

"Ready." He flexed his surviving arm and then brought his other into view, peeling the plated glove over his electronics. He had made sure to cover his prosthetic entirely; partly to stop the spooks aboard from questioning and partly to make sure any glancing hits from a covenant energy weapon weren't more crippling than they already had the potential to be; he didn't want to be scolded, blinded **and **without an arm when the time came. Mostly though, he did it so that he could forget.

"Sean, are you ready?" The voice rippled in from Peter's right again.

"Le's do it." Another voice answered from the left, the owner stood three football pitches away, towards his south. He nodded slowly at Sean, and a brief distortion of the figure showed his response in kind.

"Simulation One; Marshland; Algolis." Lucifer recited. A harsh hiss drew Peter's gaze to the top corners of the room, where jets of thick smog were bulging out of gaps and spreading as they dropped. Within ten seconds, he could only see fifty metres ahead of him, and within twenty he could barely see further than he could stretch his arm in any direction. He heard a deep hum beneath his feet, accompanied by thin reverberations. Blurred black silhouettes rose up, large blocky cuboids at steep angles, turning to a bleached grey as they breached the lining of fog. These were likely to simulate the claustrophobic conditions of battles in swamps and on ships, by making sure combatants wouldn't always have a bead on each other. _As if the smog wasn't enough._

This was not the only purpose of the smoke and the rocks. Peter smirked as he looked up into dark yellowy green windows and realised that their second purpose was to make the battles fun to watch. He observed the rows of spooks, Spartans and marines that had attended the 'War Games' for a moment, licking his lips and swallowing hard.

A larger rumbling filled the void left by the jagged blocks as the walls began to shift and distort. No longer were they smooth titanium edges; the titanium had shifted as panels crawled out at varying lengths and widths to simulate plateaus, mountains and ruined buildings. After a few minutes of terraforming silence fell again, and Lucifer spoke:

"Battlefield prepared. Distributing weaponry." From the ceiling a rack, reminiscent of the basket in a hot air balloon, fell down behind the Shock Trooper. He glanced over the selection; an assault rifle rested against the side of the basket, a battle rifle resting on that. He glanced across, stopping when he saw the familiar blocky look and pump mechanism of a Combat Shotgun. He knew Sean well enough; he could almost hear the explosive booming of the buckshot already. He grabbed a magnum from the rack and slid it into his empty holster.

"I'm ready." He called out to nothing obvious.

"Same." An Irish voice echoed across the chamber. Sean was fired up.

"Very well," Lucifer spoke at last, "Begin."

Peter's HUD lit up, his VISR bursting into life. Advanced, his posture lowering, towards the nearest piece of cover and peaked around to the left. There was nothing he could see but dull fog swirling, and the glimmering steel of another block's corner five metres out. He leapfrogged up and hugged this one. As he walked forward, the fog seemed to clog the space around him. He suddenly felt claustrophobic for the first time in his life, and wondered if this was what being sent to an urban warzone felt like. He proceeded to the corner of this block, which rose as high as a bus stop shelter and twice as wide. He peered around to the right, scanning through the mist and seeing nothing.

That was when a cherry red outline pierced the veil and seemed to make the fog retreat away from it. It was a ball, with five digits barely visible. A balled hand. He watched it turn to face him head on, so the ball was now a tall, thin bulge of uneven red mass. He drew his magnum and pointed it at the blob of red, which began to spread out into the shape of an arm and leg. He fired a pair of rounds at the target.

The target backed out of sight with a loud seething 'FUCK!' before appearing out from the other side and sending a blast of orange through the fog, sending Peter back onto his rear with the force alone. Yep, definitely a shotgun. Sensing the upper hand, his assailant charged forth, and as Peter succeeded in lifting one knee from the ground another blast of buckshot sent him down for the count again. The red outline was complete now, but Peter didn't need it; Sean's turquoise pauldrons glistened through the fog and dust.

"Damn. Sorry, Pete." Sean spoke through the mist, with obvious triumph. Peter looked down as the shotgun aimed again, enough force to send him into a coma for… He didn't want to think about how long. It would hurt, a lot, and Sean would never let him hear the end of it.

So he did the only thing he could think of doing. He brought his robotic hand up, curled into a fist loosely, and with all his strength smashed Sean's hand aside with a loud crack. The shotgun, now violently dented along the barrel where the fist had hit, spun through the air and clattered somewhere out of sight. Peter stood up, delivering another punch to Sean's helmet, which cracked open. He tore it off and let it fall to the floor; along with several white things that looked like marshmallows and a thin lining of blood that stretched from the trooper's left lip. Peter took a weary glance and his heart sank; the lip had been shredded, with tooth shape holes carving thick crimson patterns through the skin that were already thick with congealing blood. Sean stood there in distant shock, rolling a finger across his wounds. He then turned and, without a word, stomped off.

"Excellent work, gentlemen!" A happy voice cheered through loudspeakers. "Terrific job, Peter! Your upgrades seem to be up to task! We'll have a few more war games, then…"

Peter wasn't listening. He was busy watching the door close behind his friend. He felt weighed down by sadness, and wondered hopelessly if Sean would forgive him for it. _I had to win. _He thought. _I had to win, and I did, and Sean will get it, and nothing will go wrong._

He peeled off his combat glove, grimacing with disgust at the dark bloodstain along the middle knuckle and tossing it aside. He eyed up and down his robotic hand yet again, this time with a face of naïve horror, like a child who's seen a Grizzly at work for the first time.


	13. Chapter 13

"That's a nasty hit," the corpsman sighed, dropping Sean's jaw back into place and giving Peter a passing scowl. "How did it happen?"

"I, uh," Peter sank his head and watched the bloodstain, splashed over his hand like paint, glimmering in the light. "War Games."

"Of course," she moaned, "War Games." She thought for a moment, planting a needle gently into Sean's open mouth and applying anaesthetic. He winced a bit. "I've been telling Edmunds since we got assigned here; we've not got enough people to go dawdling about in War Games. Especially when they aren't sims."

Peter nodded in agreement. He felt bad, very bad. When he landed that blow he almost felt it himself. 8 years they had known each other; ever since Sean had saved his ass from a Spec Ops grunt back on Reach. Peter laughed a bit, ignoring the glare that the Corpsman gave him. He looked at Sean who obviously knew why he was chuckling, and tried to laugh too. He swore and stopped.

"Alright," The corpsman ran a finger along another needle full of something thick and turquoise, "I'm putting him out while I let the bio-foam and stitching do their job. He'll be up within a few days."

"Thanks, Doc."

"I _did _say I didn't want to see you in here again." She gave him a wink with one of her emerald eyes and set about her business. Peter took the opportunity to depart with enthusiasm, because every second he had to watch the coagulating blood, that Sean would cough up in small spouts when it grew too thick, made him feel worse.

"You should be going. He's gonna be out for some time." She placed a hand on his lower jaw, willing him to lift his head slightly. After looking into his mouth one more time, she grimaced. "Besides, you're not exactly on good terms right now."

"It was just-"Peter began to protest. She stopped him with a rolling of the eyes.

"Yes, I know. _It was just War Games. _Listen, I won't leave until he's up." She declared. "Will that put your mind at rest?"

Peter sighed, but nodded. He turned and walked out into the corridor, stopping where the paths diverged. In pristine cream an arrow split in two likewise, declaring that the corridor to the left led into the mess hall and the bulkhead to the right led to the armoury. He turned to the left, almost in disgust. Besides, he hadn't had any R&amp;R since he'd been woken up.

_Been woken up… _He thought again, even as he slid, along, onto the nearest bench and leant against the table. He listened in to the conversations that were continuing on their way about him. Some attack on New Phoenix came up in hushed whispers behind him. To his right, there were talks of the Davis Cup back on Earth, and how Romania had won again. Only one utterance caught his attention.

"Man, I've never been to Kholo. Not in a _long _time." _Kholo? What the hell's she doing at Kholo? _He almost lost the conversation as he began to question it himself, but someone else brought him back in. Someone very young, very familiar, and _very _French.

"Never been there at all, myself." He responded. "Always thought it was just mud and gravel."

"Yeah, is now." They all chuckled, four voices in total. It must've been one of the colonies that got glassed, but Pete had no idea when that was, if anyone got out. He didn't even know if anyone from the Corp was a Kholian themselves. Peter slid out from In front of the bench, waited until his appearance was less conspicuous and then made his presence known. He tapped a familiar matt of familiar ginger hair, which rose like a walnut whip in cringe-worthy fashion in that same familiar way. He grabbed the familiar ocean-blue shoulder-piece and guided the Hell jumper around.

"Huh?" He stopped, his head tilting down to the left as he analysed his new acquaintance. "Holy shit..." His eyes lit up. "Pete?"

"How's it been, Bill?" The Frenchman shuffled sideways and Pete sat down. Every eye opposite him fell down onto his mechanical hand which was tapping the table with its fingers.

"Damn," Billy said at last, to ease the tension, "She really beat the shit out of you, didn't she?"

"Beaten up by a girl, ODST?" Another one added from opposite him. He was a spook, no doubt; he wore what looked like a casual marine dress but it was entirely coal-black, with silver seams. The small ONI Triangle glistened on his breast.

"Har, har, har." Pete flipped the bird.

"So, how's Sean? I saw what happened, boss." He looked at the robotic hand again and began to scowl. When he realised Pete was watching him his expression relaxed into neutrality.

"Shit, I don't know. I don't even know what's going on, really. Woke up a few days back."

"We're on Kholo."

"I heard."

Billy lowered his head as if in failure. "Well, have you tried asking Edmunds for a brief?"

"I don't feel comfortable by myself. Not with him."

The Spook chuckled. "He's scared of Ed?" He wiggled his hands by his ears and made squelchy noises, slapping his lips with his tongue, so he sounded like something from a kid's horror story.

"Shut it, Roger." Billy seethed at the Spook, who stopped. Pete expected the ONI boy to court-marshal him on the spot; he was just a Hell Jumper after-all. But he didn't. None of it made sense. Realising that he was even more in the dark than he'd been expecting, he agreed. "Fine. I'll go ask Edmunds. Nice seeing you Bill."

"And you. Don't worry, Luce. will keep a tab on you, if he tries anything."

He slid out from the bench and wandered off, towards the door. He ignored the pairs of eyes on the benches he passed that followed him like hawks. He assumed they were looking at the hand, and he was already used to the heat of having someone gaze at him uncertainly. Especially after his last escapade.

What he wasn't expecting was when he arrived at the bulkhead into the bridge, and it opened to reveal Edmunds, standing quietly with a ration bar in his hands. He wasn't grinning, or anything, but he tried to welcome him in with some semblance of enthusiasm. "Hey, Peter. I heard you wanted an update! Come right in."

"Yes, sir. Of course, sir." Peter was taken aback. Edmunds must've been good at reading people. Pete stopped to think; _or the spook had told his boss in advance_. He followed Edmunds to the familiar holo-table with the familiar flickering skyline and piles of rubble. He sat down.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N – Hey guys. Sorry for the long break! My writing attention is split between this and another story at the moment, not to mention real-life priorities (I hate exams.) I'll try and write more of this as and when I am able, and when I can think of something worthwhile. Anyway, enjoy the read.**

"You want to know why we're orbiting Kholo?" Edmunds mused with no small amount of shock.

"Yeah," Peter leant against the holo-table and panned his eyes across the decrepid city-scape it had created. "Lost in the war, wasn't it? What good Is it to us?"

"Well," Edmunds swallowed hard, reinvigorating his toothy grin. "We don't know!" He chuckled.

"What do you mean, _we don't know_?" The ODST seethed. All of this, being kept in the dark, it suited ONI agents maybe; but not him.

"After she escaped us last time," Edmund's gaze fell onto Peter's prosthetic, and he grit his teeth, "We tracked her to this world. No idea why; guess you'll have to ask when we bring her in!"

"And why are we bringing her in?" Peter spoke slowly. His patience was waning, and from the way that Edmund's grin sank slightly, and the way his lips crept closer together, so was his.

"Why, don't you jarheads _ever _listen?"

With that comment, something snapped. Peter found himself vaulting the table, his eyes fixed on Edmund's irritating grin. His prosthetic arm seemed to act by itself as it gripped the ONI agent's collar and tore him up so that his feet were trailing limp across the floor. The spook bleated with fright:

"She's a murderer! You know this! Let me go!" He ordered. Peter brought his other fist up quickly, pulling it away before it met Edmund's temple. Getting the hint, he added a quick "Please!"

"So why do you want her alive?"

"The equipment, it's too expensive, you see-" Peter grunted with discontent, "-Plus, we want to rehabilitate her! Surely you, now, know what it's like to be different? To be something not-fully-human, like her? I want to use you to help her!"

Peter's senses returned. It was as if the responsibility that this gave him made him restrain himself at last. He felt warm; it was a compliment to be relied on so greatly, especially by a spook. Part of him didn't believe him; why would he? Edmunds was _strange _at the best of times. But most of him desperately wanted to believe that he had a use on this mission, and so could only smile warmly at the officer, who brushed himself off and ironed out the crease in his collar.

"Now, enjoy your time in stasis." Edmund's smile returned, but it was laced with condescension now.

Peter's thankful smile dissolved. He heard heavy boots behind him, heard the cathartic _click_ of a magnum being cocked. He felt the cold iron against the back of his head.

A horseshoe of onlookers had already formed around the hallway, as the security guided Peter out. He willed himself to look. On the left were a field of scolding grimaces, of exchanged, insulting mutterings and concealed laughing. These were the spooks, of course, and to them the machinations and downfall of a disgruntled, barbaric littlejarhead must have been nothing more than entertainment, to break up an otherwise dull routine.

On the right, it was different. Billy stood in the centre of ten-or-so marines, technicians and other assorted people, not attached to ONI. Some of them looked with anger and embarrassment, like the spooks. But most looked disappointed. They hid their faces from his gaze and from the gaze of the boys in black that jeered beside them. Billy, especially, looked traumatised; like a child that's silently begging to be embraced.

He thanked the guards for speeding up to overtake the crowd, because it made him feel like shit. He was busy trying to explain to himself what had happened, and why; it all went too quickly for him. Maybe if he was a Spartan…

As the guards spread out in a large, cold room, each side housing a row of cryo-pods, and beckoned him into one, Peter felt a sudden likeness with that Spartan. He'd got the answers he wanted, at least. He listened to the noise of the cryo-pod closing on him and closed his eyes as his temperature entered free-fall and his body froze up.

-x—x—x—x—x—x—x—x—x—x—x—x—x—x—x—x—x—x—x—x—x—x—x—x—x—x—x—x—x—x—

The pod screeched and hissed as mechanisms that had gone dormant struggled back to life. The door swung open and the shock-trooper flopped out, his body limp. His feet caught him at the last second, just before he collapsed to the floor. He stretched his fingers and shook his legs, and looked all about him, as the icey flakes that coated his visor began to recede in the relative warmth. He felt himself gasping in shock.

The hall was empty, and almost pitch black. The only light came from the dance of a deep, yellow strobe light, which spun about the room from the centre of the ceiling. He couldn't make anything out; the light passed on too quickly. Accompanying this was the wail of an alarm. Peter instinctively swung his hand to his hip, hissing in pain; there was nothing there. Of course there wasn't. Shit.

"I see you are awake." A voice spoke in hushed whispers, through the trooper's helmet.

"Lucifer," Peter choked. "What's going on?"

"Oh, I believe Just Peter can answer that himself."

Peter gulped. Of course he could. He wasn't an optimist like Sean; wasn't naïve like Billy. "Lizards or Monkeys?"

"Pardon, sir?"

"What are we dealing with?"

"I don't know, Just Peter." The ODST grunted and kicked the base of the nearest cryo-pod with his foot. A loud clang rang out.

"If Just Peter's trying to die," The articulate, condescending voice mused, "I assure him that he's going about it quite effectively!"

"Which way to the med-bay, Luce?" He caught himself asking that. It panicked him; he genuinely couldn't remember. His memory was like a piece of paper that had holes born through it; he could remember the general things, of course, but not the little things. He didn't know where the med-bay was, didn't know what the name of the ship was that he was currently stood on, no doubt shaking like a frightened child in the blare of the alarm.

The AI gave directions, and Peter began to follow them. He managed to get through the first hall unopposed, and he felt a relief as the sound of the wailing alarm began to fall behind him. He hadn't seen any evidence of a fight, here… but then again, the ship wasn't that big, nor that densely populated. It was possible that he Covenant simple hadn't faced anyone in this section, as isolated as it was from the rest of the ship.

Then, as he approached another door, he stopped. He heard a thick chorus of buzzing, from many sources all at once. He froze, crouching in the corner of the hall, to the right of the door, and planning his next move.


End file.
